Addicted to Company
by TheVerbalThing ComesAndGoes
Summary: Today, he promises himself, he'll start anew. Just as soon as he finishes this one last line. Craig, post rehab with shades of Craig/Ellie and Alex/Paige. AU.
1. A Fine Line

Addicted to Company

Summary: Today, he promises himself, he'll start anew. ...Just as soon as he finishes this one last line. Craig, post rehab. AU

Disclaimer: lyrics and story title belong to Paddy Casey; chapter titles belong to Cloud Cult.

Pairings: Craig/Alex (with some Craig/Ellie, and some hints of Alex/Paige)

**A/N: **moments in italics are Craig's time in rehab, just so you know. and of course, reviews are loved.

* * *

_Lot left to tell you _

_...__but I haven't quite worked it out yet._

This is Group:

_Open up_, they say, _tell us your story_. _Cut yourself open. Show us what's on the inside; show us what really matters. _

On the inside, he is screaming: _You don't want to know what I'm really like. _

On the inside he is thrashing and kicking; giving everyone the finger and telling them all where to put it. On the inside, he is the very definition of relentless; the difference between him and his father would be a very slim line. On the inside, he is fighting to keep his worst fears from being realized. (He wonders if they can feel him trying to tear through his skin.)

On the outside, it's a whole other story.

He pushes his hands together because they won't stop shaking (nothing will). Rehab was a good start, he knows this, but the want, the feel, the _desire _seems impossible to eliminate; the need still courses through him somewhere. Although it's less of an obstruction now and more of a nuisance, it's still very much a part of him.

At the front of the room, Alyce, the meeting header, waits open-mouthed, ready, and eager to hear about the weaknesses that have ripped their lives apart.

At the back of the room, there is a pitcher of some Kool-Aid/Hawaiian Punch mixture that leaves a sour, sugary sweet taste in his mouth and numbs his tongue - not unlike the feeling at the back of his throat just before he vomits.

Alyce leans forward, rolls a paper cup between her fingers. Craig notices she has yet to take a sip of her own drink; his suspicion grows threefold. "Is everyone ready?" she says.

He hasn't realized they've started until the clapping resounds around the room. He clenches his shaking hands, tells himself to pay attention. This is his second chance; he _needs _to pay attention.

A chair scrapes across the floor and he cringes.

He reminds himself to keep his head down, just to maintain what little sanity he has left; for Craig, it's hard to look at anyone here without seeing ghosts and reminders of people he knew, once upon a time.

The redhead sitting next to him has blue eyes and freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose, but she has this habit of looking up and through her lashes just the same as the one he's familiar with. They're sitting shoulder to shoulder, and he shifts in his seat, not at all comfortable with the memories that spark from the contact, but still not completely willing to move away. (He's always had a hard time letting go.) "Angela…and I guess I'm addicted to cocaine."

Craig resists the urge to raise his cup to her in solidarity.

"…I'm Chris, and I'm an addict."

This is the guy to his left: a meth-addicted Spinner, with B-rated 70's flick dialogue (a fountain of clichés) and even worse hair. His real name is Chris, last name not given— because, apparently, the only thing that's truly important here is the drug that's ruined his life.

"Of?" Alyce is on the edge of her seat, breathing in the moment where meth-Spinner/Chris acknowledges his faults and cracks.

"Crystal meth gets me flyin'."

Craig rolls his eyes. _Typical_. But then, he smiles a little, because it actually sounds like something Spinner might say.

It takes Craig half a second to realize that all eyes are on him—been a while since he's had that feeling—and he clears his throat, squeezes his trembling fingers against each other. His voice is low and cracks when he says the second part of his name. "Craig."

"And?"

"...Wouldn't be here if I didn't have to be."

Alyce frowns, not getting quite the satisfaction she wants. Her wide eyes bear into him, waiting for more. He knows the words she wants to hear but he is so damned tired of saying them. He can tell she wants to push him, wants to be the one to give him his "breakthrough". Instead, she insists, "We'll work on that."

He doesn't want to talk about this. Not yet, anyway. Or ever, maybe, but he would at least like the chance to be the one to decide it— not some humdrum doctor keeping tabs on him or some failed guidance counselor who's way in over her head and should stick to teaching kindergarten.

Once they have all spoken, it's time for the "how are you coping with the temptations of the real world?" portion of the hour. He lets out a breath, leans back in his chair and tries to ignore the fact that the majority of the room, when Alyce isn't looking, keeps peering over at him.

Ivy, a heroin addict, is the first one to go:

"—just wish I could go out sometimes, you know? Without all the pressure or worrying about temptation."

Some of the others murmur in agreement, while Craig remains silent. He doesn't have this problem which is probably because when he goes out, he does it alone. Although, more often than not, he doesn't end the night that way. He knows this isn't the recommended remedy but that's always been his technique: balance of the stable and the not, the good and bad.

His own personal form of equilibrium.

His, and his alone.

* * *

"_You need help, Craig."_

_It's the story of his life, the mantra running on permanent loop in the back of his mind. He thinks he's finally grown tired of hearing it._

_Today, he promises himself, he starts anew. _

_He swears to the wild and crazed man looking back at him that this is where they part, where he ends . He can hear Joey, leaning against the bathroom door and cannot summon up any ounce of righteous indignation; he deserves to be mistrusted. _

_Hands shaking, he nearly messes up the small neat lines he's managed to form on the edge of the sink, through the crafty and impressive use of the edge of a Q-tip. He looks in the mirror one last time before leaning forward and inhaling quietly. _

_Today, he'll start anew._

_Just as soon as he finishes this line._

When the meeting is over, meth-Spinner is the first to block Craig on his way to the exit. "Hey, man, don't I know you?"

"I don't think so," Craig responds slowly. He shakes his head, pats his pockets for his pack of cigarettes, just for the security of knowing they're there.

"I'm pretty sure that I do bro." Meth-Spinner leans back, rest his palms flat against the doorway and squints until his eyes are nothing but slits, almost nonexistent. Craig holds his breath, and waits as Chris/meth-Spinner tries to reach inside the vacant lot that has become his brain and dredge up a memory, but nothing comes.

"Look, I really just want to get—"

"Relax, man, it'll be just between friends," Chris insists but from the far-off look in his eyes Craig can tell it's just one in a line of the many things he says that have no meaning. Empty sounds. Useless words. (Craig is sick of them; but at the same time, he needs them.) "Are you sure we haven't met?"

He can feel meth-Spinner's eyes on him as he tries to move past him; feel his unasked questions, his greedy desire to know what Craig refuses to say.

"Craig?" Blue-eyed Ellie/Angela snaps her fingers as the light bulb finally flicks on. "You're Craig _Manning_? _'Red-Headed for Trouble'?_"

"I thought we weren't allowed to use last names here… Uh, yeah," he admits. In his pocket, his fingers nervously roll a cigarette between them. His eyes, he feels them shift just above her shoulder. He'd rather not look at her if he can avoid it.

She flicks her eyes over him, unblinking in her judgment. "You look like shit."

* * *

"_Name?"_

_Through the haze of his bleary-eyed vision and dark, dark sunglasses, he is able to make out the faint line of the registration desk. He blinks and a clipboard with paper too white for his eyes to handle is shoved in front of him. The nausea clawing at his stomach is almost unbearable. "Name?"_

_Craig winces at the sharp sound of a pen tapping off to his left. He reaches out to grab it, bring his suffering to an end, but suddenly the ground disappears from beneath his feet._

_"Craig." Joey's voice, emitting his name in a disappointed sigh. It's all that he recognizes before the world goes black._

* * *

After the stint in rehab, he guesses he is edgier, grittier. He's 're-discovered' by a club with an owner who recognizes him and actually wants him around, gives him the chance to play. He's surprised but still Craig (desperately) snatches up the opportunity before it can wither up and die in front of him.

He is, by definition, an addict.

Once he starts something, there is no cutting back, there is no pulling away. Music, photography, cocaine…if he's not immersed completely and consumed by what he's gotten himself involved in, it's not even worth considering.

Women are no exception.

Ashley, a karma chameleon through and through, first love and all that comes with it, the only one whose heart he's hurt who was able to play a hand in hurting him back. (_"I need space. I need to get away."_) Manny, with her soft, wide brown eyes begging him for something he couldn't possibly give her. (_More, more and always more_. _"...She doesn't love you as much as I do."_) Ellie, confidant and friend; Ellie, broken and mended. Ellie, the reason he's still here, really. Ellie, who he always seems to disappoint but has never wanted to stop believing in him. (_"I love you, too."_) Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

He keeps his eyes open as he tilts his head back, hopes the liquid making its way down his throat will erase the name burning on his mind. Or, at the very least, numb him into a state of temporary amnesia.

The brunette at the end of the bar has her eye on him from the moment he walks in. It's clear from the look she gives him—she skips over being demure and cuts straight to seductress, doesn't even break gazes as she sucks down on the straw in her drink—that he has her where he wants her. Craig raises his eyebrows at her, tilts his head in a gesture that she come over but she does nothing to follow through. Figures.

His eyes sweep across the floor, past a slim girl with red hair just barely brushing her shoulders, huddled together with a friend. _Absolutely not_.

The drink in his mouth already turned bitter at the sight of her hair, the color far too familiar for him to just ignore.

He's finishing up his set when he sees her, cradling a drink and fidgeting with an ashtray filled to the brim with cigarette butts.

He turns toward her, tips his glass to hers. She does the same, which surprises him. Unlike the brunette—who is all gumption but no action—she has the nerve to come over to him. He smiles, though more of his hormones and the alcohol are involved than his heart. She doesn't seem to notice; they rarely do. "What do you say I cap you off?"

It's a line, and a terrible one at that but he's sure the only reason she smiles back is because she's already started the night off with a few drinks well before his arrival. She tilts her glass towards his and with a clink they are united.

He expects her to look away when he catches her staring. She doesn't. She licks her lips, quickly, and leans back in her chair. He wonders what she's doing here, in a smoke-filled bar in the heart of Toronto, looking like a completely different person from who he'd expect her to be. _Actually, definitely...womanly._

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for everyone. Marco, Spinner, Ellie…" He wonders if she lets the last name linger on purpose, wonders if she's just trying to get a reaction out of him. "The whole gang is getting together for a reunion."

"Really?" he asks in spite of himself.

"No." She snorts, asks if he's always been this gullible. Probably. He's never really thought about it before.

"I was supposed to have dinner with Paige, but…" She holds up the phone she's been scrolling through all night and he reads the abrupt, if dismissive, message:

_Need to cancel. Something came up. Rain check? – Paige_

"I haven't answered back yet. I've just been staring at it all night. Isn't that pathetic?"

"Yes," he replies, without any hesitation.

"Brutally honest," she murmurs. "I like that."

"I didn't think you appreciated being bullshitted."

"You're right. I don't. Thank you." Alex sets her drink to the side, ignoring the coaster and dragging her finger through the small ring of water that will no doubt ruin the wood.

"You're welcome."

She isn't touching him, but he can feel her body heat through the material of his jeans and realizes, as his eyes connect with hers, that she doesn't have to.

In the back of his mind, he can vaguely recall "The Signs" as his adviser ("_Because I'm not your therapist, I'm not your mommy and I'm not here to hold your hand. But I am here to help you"_) put it. Signs that what he's doing is probably not the best idea and will probably lead him towards "A Setback".

(_"And you don't want that. It's a hell of a lot harder to stay clean when you let yourself get caught up in the moment all the time."_)

Three hours later, he's snorting cocaine off the smooth planes of Alex's stomach, the tip of his nose dipping into her navel. It's the first time he's ever gotten high this way, and he thinks, as the heel of her foot digs into the curve of his back, that he's fallen in love with the drug all over again.


	2. Between Falling and Flying

Addicted to Company

Summary: Today, he promises himself, he'll start anew. ...Just as soon as he finishes this one last line. Craig, post rehab. AU

Rated M for horribly inappropriate language and drug use.

* * *

_Don't want this story to be one that is filled with regret. _

_Lot left to tell you _

_...but it might be no business of mine._

This is the Morning After:

Regret and uncertainty wash over him in waves and sounds. He thinks he wants nothing more than to take back last night. Although, if it's possible, he would only erase the actions and eliminate the mistakes, but not the feeling. If he could, he'd bottle up what it feels like to get high using another person's body. He wouldn't mind feeling that way again.

"Fuck."

His head is pounding and there are bright, bursts of white stars behind his eyelids and his mouth feels full of cotton. He moves to roll over but his limbs are heavy and he curses his misfortune to an empty room. His poor, screwed up mind tries to piece together the puzzle but all he can come up with are flashes of moments - bathroom sink, refrigerator, bedroom doorway - and all the other ways they screwed each other over.

"_Fuck_!"

Bright, late morning sun streams in through the sheets serving as a curtain covering his window and he is nearly blinded when he opens his eyes. Craig doesn't know whether to feel dejected or relieved that he wakes up alone.

He expected to wake up alone, anticipated the after-effects of last night the moment he pulled Alex into his apartment and onto his bed. But somehow this hurts more than he wants to allow himself to admit. He isn't sure why that is.

The pillow underneath his arm still has a dent where her head was. Without her presence, he can't really ignore the fact that he's alone. The thought saddens him-actually that's an understatement; it fucking _depresses_ him.

She was kind enough to leave a note, though, and in between its wrinkles and creases he can make out her handwriting:

_I do stupid things when I'm upset._

That's it.

He wonders just what the hell that means, exactly. Is he, technically, the "stupid thing"?

He fights to keep his mind from lingering on meanings and consequences as he shuffles into the bathroom to blow his nose and take his meds.

(He doesn't feel any less hopeless than when he first woke up.)

* * *

_When he comes to, he is lying flat on his back, facing a delicately tiled ceiling with fluorescent lamps that seem to only exist for the sole purpose of blinding him._

_Craig blinks and the blurry image above his face comes into focus, the jumbled sound in his ears becomes clearer. A pair of legs in jeans so tight they look like they were painted on, a voice that doesn't match— filled with far too much authority and experience. _

_He's awake enough to realize that the voice and the body don't belong together, that the hand that's helping him up, warm in his, has nothing to do with the lecture he's getting._

"_Mr. Manning… do you think you can wait until _after_ you're shown to your room before you decide to rest?"_

_The condescension doesn't sit well with him, and he promptly gives whoever the hell is talking to him the finger once he's standing on his own._

_For a moment, Craig wonders how she knows his name but the tiniest of dots fills in the holes of his memory: Joey signing him in because his own hands wouldn't stop shaking. Joey, who hasn't been able to look Craig in the eye since Snake called him and let him know what his stepson was up to in the midst of becoming a rock star. _

_(Although, truthfully, Joey hasn't looked at him the same in a long, long while.) _

"_Where's Joey?"_

"_I'm right here, Craig."_

"_Mr. Jeremiah, he needs to carry his own bag. Personal responsibility starts the moment he signs himself in."_

_It's a completely bullshit motto, in his opinion. Nothing but an excuse for the residents to use so they can feel better about their own crappy lives. He tells them this, tells them where they can shove that motto; they don't bat an eye. _

_None of it is what he wants to hear at the moment. All he wants is one line. One fucking line to make the pain stop, make him go numb—he's not in it for the high, can't they see that?—and he can do this. Is that really so much to ask for? He's currently on his hands and knees, limbs quivering, a sheen of sweat above his brow, and Craig wants nothing more than for this feeling to just...go away._

_He pulls himself to his feet, because they won't even let Joey help him do that much. Their faces are stoic and cold as he stumbles, his fingers grasping for something, anything to hold onto. (Bastards don't even help him up.) He groans, struggling to overcome the strong and seemingly constant urge to vomit._

_He doesn't feel grateful for being here, doesn't feel as though he's just walked into the place that is going to save his life. To Craig, Calgary does not equal salvation. He feels coerced by sad, hazel eyes that can't be disappointed by him again; cornered by the pressure to be better than who he is, when really he doesn't even have the strength to think he can. _

_Needless to say, his first day in rehab is hell._

* * *

He's never felt more threatened and intimidated by an inanimate object before.

Craig stares up at the building where Group is held, shuffling through his pockets for another cigarette.

He places it to his lips, hands shaking, mind overrun with memories of smooth brown skin and fine white powder. He can't get the feeling out of his mind, frightens himself with the lengths he's willing to go to get it back.

The forty-five minutes that he should be spending ripping open his soul in Group, he alternates between chain-smoking and pacing, as he takes up a post in front of the building.

With fifteen minutes left in the session, his hand hovers over the door handle but never bridges the gap to turn it. He can feel its metallic coolness, and realizes then that his palms are sweating. Ten minutes later, his fingers are dialing a number that he swore to Joey he would delete, one that connects him to a world he's wanted to forget but can't seem to escape.

* * *

_His roommate, Vincent, doesn't speak more than three words at a time and the first day_ _they meet, Craig is more focused on counting the track marks lining his arm than learning his name and memorizing his story. He counts seventeen, but that's only on the left arm._

_He finds out later that Vincent is the son of some big shot plastic surgeon, who can't afford to let anyone know what's become of his former golden child. There are eerie similarities in their histories, but Craig decides as he dutifully takes his medication that he'd rather not dwell on what they are, exactly._

_Vincent watches him as he swallows his pills, seemingly fascinated._

_Later, he asks Craig how he deals with the numbness. Instead of answering, Craig feigns disinterest, and then sleep. (He doesn't know if it works. Probably not.)_

* * *

He stumbles home after meeting with the dealer who has thoroughly missed his services and lets him know it by charging more than Craig is able to remember. He's anxious and nervous and excited about the prize sitting comfortably in his jacket pocket and he almost doesn't see her. He would've walked right over her, if it wasn't for the dim light illuminating the hallway near his apartment door.

She's leaning against the door, her head against the 2B that will likely fall off the next time someone knocks on it. Her hair is down, tumbling down her shoulders and almost covering the form-fitting V-neck t shirt. His mind grapples with coinciding this woman Alex with the tomboy from high school, who would probably kill anyone that made any references to her actually being a girl.

"Hey."

"Got stood up again?" he asks bluntly. He's not in the mood for pleasantries. He stares at some point on her chin, almost afraid to look anywhere else. He realizes that before last night he's never actually been afraid of her, but he can't completely trust himself not to get dragged into doing more regretful things.

"_No_. I just...figured I owed you an explanation."

"You don't owe me anything," he insists. He doesn't want to talk about the other night- even though it was, admittedly, the best high and fuck he'd ever had. Craig steps forward, key in hand, eager to go inside and forget about this conversation before it even starts.

"Why are you trying so hard to get away from me? Hiding something?"

"Why can't you admit that you're only here because your girlfriend found better options?"

"She's not my girlfriend," she snaps, and he thinks she's trying too hard to revert back the girl who can scare him, and not be the one who he's figured out how to make squirm underneath him with the right touch of a fingertip.

"Why are you here, Alex?" he resigns. He looks at her then, because she's covered her hand over his key in the lock, the other one discreetly sliding into his pocket.

"I thought you could use the pick me up. Looks like I was right." If anything, he's starting to think she might just be as lonely as he is, if not more, and she needs the excuse to feel connected to something, to anything. It's sad, really, how similar they truly are.

Alex holds the bag between her teeth and Craig allows himself a moment to become fascinated with her lips as she tugs on his belt buckle and slides her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. In one surprisingly deft motion, she turns the doorknob and pulls him inside.

* * *

_He calls her, because he can't help himself. _

_He calls her because, if he's honest, he misses her - misses being around her, talking to her, seeing her. He calls her, just because he can't stop thinking about what it'd be like if he never got the chance to speak to her again. _

"_I meant what I said, before."_

"_Craig." She stops there, but she doesn't need to finish. He can practically see Ellie, shaking her head._

"_I meant what I said," he repeats, with conviction this time. An aide lurking around a corner glances over at him, monitoring his phone call and pitying him from afar. _

_She sighs, and when he realizes that this is as far as the conversation will go, he hangs up._

* * *

Three days later, he's flying through another set, but no matter how fast and loud he strums he is unable to repeat the high he's experienced with her. It's new and exhilarating and everything he craves (and everything he shouldn't).

Alex is sitting at a table near the front, ignoring advances from the other bar patrons and focusing her attention solely on him. It's different, coming from her, but not completely unfamiliar.

When he's finished, she is waiting for him outside and drags his mouth towards hers in an unexpectedly rough kiss with an aftertaste of rum and coke. She is desperate and pulling on his collar, but he doesn't ask what's happened that's made her like this. That's not what their arrangement is about.

Craig isn't sure how long they continue on like this; days tumble over and into each other, fading and melding into weeks until he finds it hard to remember a time when they _weren't_ using each other to reach their highs and try to overcome their lows.

He feels somewhat hypocritical, going to Group meetings and pretending to care about the plight of his fellow addicts only to go home to screw Alex and snort as many lines as he can handle. But he is lost, trapped in the middle, uncertain and unwilling to pick a side completely.

On one of the rare nights that Alex actually stays over, Craig wakes up in the middle of the night with a craving for something sugary or loaded with caffeine. He slides from underneath her, her bare chest sliding across his and for a moment he almost stays. But his wants will always exceed anything and everything else and he leaves.

He throws on a pair of jeans and an old t shirt, then heads to the mini-mart a few blocks from his apartment.

In aisle four, he is trying to decide between blow pops and jolly ranchers when he's startled by a shock of red that he sees out of the corner of his eye and can't ignore.

"Ellie?"

"...Craig."

He smiles when he sees her, puts on a front of stability, but he thinks - almost hopes, actually - that she can see right through it. "Hey," he says.

"Hey." She smiles back.


	3. And It's the Habits You Need

Addicted to Company

Summary: Today, he promises himself, he'll start anew. ...Just as soon as he finishes this one last line. Craig, post rehab. AU

Rated M for horribly inappropriate language and drug use.

* * *

_ Too busy looking and never really seen the signs_  
_and maybe I'm just addicted to company_

_I love places to go and I love people to see_

_and that's alright. _

_That's enough for tonight._

This is everything he's been missing:

Craig pulls Ellie into a hug, holding her tightly, unconsciously inhaling the scent of her hair. She's changed shampoos, he realizes. (He shouldn't be surprised. It's been well over a year.)

He knows that he shouldn't even notice this, but he has and will now be hard pressed to forget.

Craig hesitates in releasing her from his grip, wanting to hold on for a little bit longer but knowing, for her sake at least, that he needs to let go. He wishes her disappointment doesn't bother him as much, but it does. Has nothing really changed since she walked away from him at that airport?

He panics for a moment, as he feels her eyes on him. She knows. She has to. She _has _to.

"What are you doing here?"

"I live a couple blocks that way; had a late night craving." He holds up the bags of jolly ranchers and lollipops, smiling crookedly. She smiles back and he tries not to choke on the guilt lodging itself in his throat.

An awkward silence settles over them for a moment before Craig hears himself admit that he's missed her.

"I've missed you, too." Her smile grows as she says this and he feels his stomach sink.

She doesn't know, though his guilty conscience was hoping to be relieved of some of the burden. He doesn't want to disappoint her, but it's an outcome that seems to be inevitable in spite of what he wants.

He can't remember how long it's been since he saw her last; he's still coming down from his high and it feels like it was just yesterday that he tried to tell her he was sorry, that he really did (does?) love her, that he never wanted to hurt her as badly as he did (but, somehow, he just can't help it.)

"So, what have you been up to?"

"Well, I got a gig playing at this place in downtown Toronto on the weekends. It's not exactly high-paying but-"

"But you totally love it," she finishes for him, her smile widening.

"Yeah." _But I wish that were enough._

"Mind if I come by to see you play?"

"Would it matter if I did?" he asks, good-naturedly.

"Of course not."

"You could stop by on Friday... if you want," he adds awkwardly.

Craig isn't sure whether or not he means this, whether or not he wants Ellie to see him that way again but then she rests her hand against his forearm and he remembers then just how much he's missed her.

He doesn't mention to Alex anything about running into Ellie; they don't usually talk about things of substance or anything that matters to either of them, nothing beyond a superficial level—that's not their game. The rule of their game is to use each other and to be used _by_ each other. Craig has not yet determined whether or not he likes this rule, but he doesn't forget it.

He knows this, keeps it in the back of his mind as he crawls into bed next to her. She's leaning over his night stand, the only sound in the room the echo of her deep inhale. "_God_," she mumbles, reaching for him. Her eyes are wild, pupils wide, and for some reason he tries to get her to actually _look_ at him but she is too far gone right now, only focused and concentrating on the physical feeling, choosing to sever emotional ties altogether.

His chest constricts involuntarily when she rolls over, her knee brushing lightly against his groin.

Her hand follows the action of her knee, and he wonders if she's always been this brazen and bold, until he realizes that he's never really known her before - and he still doesn't, not really - that the only thing they've actually shared with each other is a line.

"Share," he says, leaning over Alex's bare shoulder. He's glad the mirror lying on his dresser is covered in powder, blurring their reflections, obscuring the portrait of who they really are beneath the surface: desperate, pathetic addicts.

Alex tugs on the button of his pants and Craig doesn't have it in him to stop her from taking him into her hands. He's never been strong enough to fight or resist his temptations, not really, he realizes. And he's not sure if he ever will be. (That will always be his downfall.)

"_Fuck_." In his mind, he is screaming, but the word comes out as barely even above a whisper.

"Want to?" Alex's tongue traces the shell of his ear, and even as he pulls her towards him, he's convinced himself that this is a lovely, drug-induced dream. Or, if it isn't, they're both so high that there really wouldn't be a difference, anyway.

"You feel so good," she says but he can't tell if she means him or the coke. He doesn't think he wants to know, and so he decides it's better that he doesn't ask. Alex's nose is tinged slightly red and in the moment she leans across his chest, her hands pressed flat against his shoulders, he kisses her, mouth covering hers roughly, hips colliding painfully.

She bites his bottom lip, drawing a spot of blood without apology. He wonders what happened before she came to him to make her more viscous than usual, but he doesn't ask, simply tightens his grip on her thighs enough to leave a bruise.

_Reciprocation_, he thinks bitterly. He is good at causing pain, and Alex is just as good at giving it back.

It's better this way, he reasons, because Ellie is actually trying not to be taken claim by her demons and Alex is not completely ready to let hers go and he...he is caught somewhere in between.

It's better this way.

* * *

_He's written her a letter. Really, he wonders if he's asking for it. It's stupid, and completely pointless._

"_It's good," Dr. McIntosh says, trying to assure him. "It shows remorse."_

_It shows desperation. He doesn't tell the good doctor he wrote this letter _before_ he came here, not after—on the flight over, coming down all too quickly from a high after snorting the last of his stash—and that he hasn't looked at it since then. He can't even remember if he wrote anything coherent, but he still hasn't been able to bring himself to read it._

"_Are you planning on sending it to her?"_

_Craig shakes his head, resolute. "No."_

"…_Well maybe that's for the best for now. When you get out and you decide that you're ready—"_

"_No. She's better off without me. ...Everyone is," Craig insists. "I have this tendency to make everything and everyone around me worse." He laughs humorlessly. "It's a gift."_

_Dr. McIntosh shakes her head. "Do you honestly believe that, Craig?"_

_He doesn't answer._

* * *

Friday night, he is leaning against a grit covered wall inside the bar, trying and failing to tune his guitar for his upcoming set. His hands are shaking. Craig tells himself it's just nerves, nothing more, and actually manages to convince himself that could be halfway true. He's become a master at self-deception.

"Hey."

He's surprised to see Alex when he looks up, because there's a tremor in her voice that he wishes he hadn't noticed and there is the same determination in her eyes that he saw when she dropped by his apartment all those weeks ago. Something's wrong and Craig wants to ask her what, even though he knows she will only rebuff him, but the second he opens his mouth she pressing herself against the length of him, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other groping around in his pockets.

When she finally grasps what it is she's looking for, she pulls her mouth away from his and grabs his hand. Alex pulls him into the bathroom, the only place with actual privacy.

"Paige is here, with her new _boyfriend_," she scoffs, muttering the term as if it were a curse. "What the hell kind of name is Griffin, anyway?" She's trying to steady her hand-held mirror against the edge of the sink. He moves to stand behind her, his mind grappling with comforting her and helping her cut the lines more evenly. "Gimme," he murmurs, taking the razor carefully from between her hands.

Once Craig has the lines straightened into an almost OCD-esque perfection, he leans over, inhaling deeply, vaguely aware of Alex's hands resting on his hips. He waits as she snorts the lines he cut for her, smiling faintly as he feels himself become calmed, alert, and aware as his synapses snapped to life.

"My lips are numb," she mutters through a string of uncharacteristic giggles.

He kisses her, his hands sliding up her skirt and caressing the bare skin of her thigh. "No they're not."

She laughs again as she unbuttons his pants and he wraps her legs high around his waist. His nose buried in her hair, he can't quite place the scent though he knows it's something floral. The moment is strangely intimate and he isn't sure whether he can place the blame solely on the drug-induced euphoria they are both consumed by.

Afterward, when Alex has straightened out her clothes and is breathing a little easier, Craig steps forward and, without thinking, cups her face, his thumb grazing her jaw and settling against her bottom lip. When he kisses her this time, there is nothing brusque or blunt about it. He will never know what brought her crawling to _him _of all people, but he wants to try to make it better.

She pulls away from him, shaking her head, probably sensing his intentions to make this out to be more than it is, more than it should be. "Don't, Craig."

"Why not?" he asks. She doesn't answer, instead she pushes him back and unlocks the door.

When she opens it, they are both surprised to see Ellie standing on the other side of it, Marco and Paige not too far behind her.

"Oh, hey Elle, long time no see." Alex slides past her, intoxication adding a slight sway to her step. Ellie's eyes dart back and forth between Craig and Alex's retreating form, taking in their frenzied state of dress, the redness of his nose, and, of course, the razor and mirror lying forgotten on the edge of the sink.

"You're an _idiot_, Craig," Ellie hisses at him, and he feels his throat tighten at the quiver in her tone, the flash of unabashed anger in her eyes. He's never really seen this side of her before. "_God_, Craig... Was it even worth it? Honestly?"

_Hard to say, really._


	4. It's the Feeling That You've Lost It

Addicted to Company

Summary: Today, he promises himself, he'll start anew. …Just as soon as he finishes this line. AU Craig, post rehab.

Rated M for horribly inappropriate language and drug use (...and certain situations).

* * *

_No one has self tragedy and confusion and I  
Don't wanna act to this day love illusion, I  
Just telling you stories that don't belong in your head  
And I think I'd rather just watch you dance instead and  
Maybe I'm just addicted to company._

This is Disillusionment:

After Alex has straightened out her clothes and they are both breathing a little easier, Craig steps forward and, without thinking, cups her face in between both of his hands, his thumbs grazing her jaw and settling against her bottom lip. When he kisses her this time, there is nothing brusque or blunt or rough about it. He will never know what brought her crawling to _him _of all people that night all those months ago, but he thinks he wants to try to make it better.

She pulls away from him, shaking her head, probably sensing his intentions to make this out to be more than it is, more than it should ever be. She smiles sadly shaking her head. "_Don't_, Craig."

"Why not?" he asks. Alex doesn't answer, instead she pushes him back and unlocks the door.

When she opens it, they are both surprised to see Ellie standing on the other side, with Marco and Paige standing not too far behind her, looks of judgment and angry disapproval affixed upon their faces.

"Oh, hey, Elle, long time no see. I _love_ your hair." Alex slides past her, intoxication adding a slight sway to her step. Ellie's eyes dart back and forth between Craig and Alex's retreating form, taking in their frenzied state of dress, the redness of his nose, and, of course, the razor and mirror lying forgotten on the edge of the sink. "Paige-y! What's _up_?"

"You're an _idiot_," Ellie hisses at him, and he feels his throat tighten at the quiver in her tone, the flash of unabashed anger in her eyes. He's never really seen this side of her before. "_God_, Craig... Was it even worth it? Honestly?"

_Hard to say, really._

"Ellie, wait - just wait a minute, okay? Can we talk? Please?" He knows how ridiculous he must look: struggling to pull up the zipper on his jeans and trying to follow Ellie through what seems to be a gathering crowd, his eyes wide and hair wild.

She stops just as she reaches the exit and whirls around to face him. Her eyes are red and shimmering from tears she refuses to shed, but Craig can still see the pain he's caused. "What do we have to talk about? What the _hell_ were you _thinking_, Craig?"

"Ellie, this— it wasn't what you think. Alex and me, we aren't even together-"

"You think I _care_ about that? Craig, what happened to rehab?"

"What do you mean? I went, you saw me leave—"

"The whole point of you going was for it to actually _work. _For it to _change _something." She shakes her head, but all he is focused on is the shine of unshed tears in her eyes, still feels the wave of self-hatred wash over him. He always does this, doesn't he?

"It hasn't changed anything, has it?" Ellie asks rhetorically, sadly.

He goes quiet for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say, trying _not _to think that his high has been completely ruined, and considers reaching out to her. Though he doubts that any form of physical contact would go over well.

"I don't know...I really wanted it to, Elle."

"Well obviously you didn't want it badly enough."

"Elle-"

"I'm _done_, Craig," she chokes out, and she turns away just in time for him to see the tears falling down her cheeks. He can hear, behind him, his name being announced to perform on stage.

* * *

_So it's official: _

_He's pathetic. _

_Craig stares down at the picture he never had the balls to remove from his wallet, the corner of it creased down and nearly faded. Ingrid, another messed up coke head who's been lingering around him lately, leans over his shoulder. If Craig tilts his head and squints his eyes just right, he sees that Ingrid is oddly reminiscent of Ashley, B.C. (Before Craig), from the pictures he's seen and stories he'd heard as the new kid from Jimmy, Paige, Hazel, even Terri._

_So he tries not to look at her too often if he can help it.  
_

_Ingrid's rock bottom: trading sex for coke in a Hilton hotel (Daddy issues), then getting beaten up and robbed anyway, and left for dead. It's a story that's not as bad as most, but still worse than some. Same as him. _

_"What are you doing in here?"_

_"Visiting you, of course," Ingrid replies. "We're good as long as you leave the door open. I promise, no funny business." She pushes her hair behind her ear, uncovering a faded scar near her hairline. She tilts her head, her chin hovering above Craig's shoulder. "Who's the redhead?"_

"_A friend," is all he says. Ellie is an untouchable subject in this place (one of many) and probably always will be. _

"_They are hard to come by," Ingrid agrees, her hand on his shoulder. He doesn't shrug her off, even though he has a feeling that he probably should._

_He doesn't tell her how true he thinks that statement is.  
_

* * *

Alex is pulling at his hair, practically yanking it out his scalp, while her other hand grips the back of his neck with a pain that lets him know it will probably leave a fairly large sized bruise.

He isn't sure how much time has passed since his gig at the club where Ellie, Paige, and Marco discovered them in the bathroom and uncovered his fall from sobriety. He is completely unaware of any guilt or remorse Alex could be feeling and Craig wishes he didn't care so much—or, at least, he wishes he could pretend he didn't care so much.

It seems to be so much easier for Alex. (Either that, or she's a damned good liar. Both are an equal possibility.)

Alex says nothing about his red rimmed eyes and lack of focus but the sad, knowing look in her eyes tells Craig everything.

She knows what he's dealing with, he might even go as far as to say she feels an emotion that approaches empathy. For him, having her around isn't what he would call comforting ("sugarcoat" does not seem to be a word that is part of her vocabulary) but more of a reliable constant.

Oddly enough he finds it easier; his day goes a little better when he talks to her. Addict to addict, a verbal sharing of needles. It's certainly not the most stable of relationships that he's formed (he has a feeling that if he would have kept up with going to his meetings Alyce, group counselor would have been more than eager to express her concerns)—but then again, that's always been his technique. A balance of the stable and the not. The good and bad. His own personal form of equilibrium.

Alex tugs on his pants and Craig doesn't have it in him to stop her from taking him into her hands. He's not strong enough, he realizes. He's not sure if he ever will be. _"Was it worth it?" _

He wishes he could get Ellie's voice, Ellie's _face, _out of his head_._

_Easier said than done.__  
_

He's really fucked up. His mind drifts between Alex and Ellie and he's so fucking lost he doesn't whose name he ends up calling out when he's finished. But Alex must be in the same place he is - or is just too gone to care - because she doesn't push him away like she usually does when they're done (and when he grips her face, kissing her fiercely she kisses him back with equal fervor).

He's barely even pulled out of Alex when he picks up the phone to call Ellie, the words spewing out in a rush of desperation once he hears the harsh, monotonous beep signaling her answering machine.

"Elle, I'm sorry you're right. I...fucked up, really bad. Call me back. Please. I know I don't deserve it. I just - I fucked up and I don't what to do to get you to forgive me, Ellie. I'll-I'll go to Group or NA or whatever you want. Just call me back. Please? Please, just call me back."

Behind him, Alex laughs, _giggles,_ actually. "Don't hold your breath," she says.


	5. It's Your Tone in My Mouth

Addicted to Company

Summary: Today, he promises himself, he'll start anew. …Just as soon as he finishes this one last line. AU Craig, post rehab.

Rated: M for inappropriate language and drug use (and all that comes with that).

* * *

_And is there something you're not sure of? _  
_Are you looking for a sign? _  
_Waiting for somebody_  
_To throw your heart a line,_  
_Or a quick and easy answer_  
_In a dark, uneasy time?_

In a moment of desperation:

It's nearing two in the morning by the time he's finished his gig at the club and he's leaning over the gritty bathroom counter, inhaling fine white powder with his eyes closed shut. Craig tries in vain to erase the image of Ellie's face, awash in disappointment and heartbreak, her mouth turned down in a way that meant she was struggling not to cry and scream, as she asked him, _"Was it worth it?"_

Craig wipes his nose hastily with the back of his hand, his eyes blinking rapidly as he allows the temporary high to engulf him. He knows it won't last long, but he probably savors it that much more for just that reason.

He is moments away from accepting the phone number scrawled on a cocktail napkin from some blond whose name he knows he won't remember come tomorrow morning when he gets a text from Alex that says, "_Please come over now."_

The blond is disappointed at his haste to leave her behind. "You'll call me?" she pouts, her hand on his sleeve.

"Yeah," he assures her, tossing a playful grin over his shoulder. Craig doesn't think about his response long enough to decide if he's lying or not.

He's worried, partly because he hasn't heard from her in over three days but mostly because Alex never bothers with normal polite words like _"please"_ and Craig's left wondering, on the brisk walk over to her apartment, what he'll find and how he'll be able to handle it when he gets there.

He only knocks once before she comes to the door. "Who is it?"

Alex's voice sounds harried and rushed and distorted and just so completely unlike her.

"It's me. Craig," he adds, hastily, as an afterthought.

She pulls the door open and he takes in the sight of Alex's red-rimmed eyes and overall disheveled appearance. It doesn't take much else for him to deduce that that she's probably been crying, or getting high, or both. The thought alone is enough to make him a little sick. He's never even heard her cry much less been around to witness the aftermath. "What happened?"

She shakes her head, pulling him inside by tightly gripping his forearm and slamming the door shut behind him. "Alex-"

He keeps trying to get her to talk while she pulls at him, tugging on his belt and pulling his shirt over his head. Once the shirt is off and tossed in the opposite direction, he finally, _really _looks at her. Craig doesn't know why it's taken him _this _long to realize she's been standing in front of him in nothing but her underwear. "What the hell happened?" he repeats.

But Alex seems to be in a daze, ignoring his question while still, inadvertently, managing to answer it anyway. "Fuck her, right? I mean she doesn't know anything about me. I don't know why I ever -" She cuts herself off, shaking her head. "_Fuck _her. I don't need her."

"This is about Paige," he realizes out loud. Alex seems to bristle when he says the name out loud and that's when she goes back to what she was doing - her hand sliding down the front of his underwear and jerking him off in the middle of her living room. The situation is so bizarre and it's strange, the way she's acting, almost like the conversation in her bed yesterday morning never happened. "Alex," he manages to choke out in the form of a strangled gasp, "maybe you should—"

She cuts him off sharply. "Look, Craig, do you want to talk or do you want to fuck me? Because _I _want you to fuck me. So stop with the bleeding heart bullshit 'cause that only works on Ellie—"

Hearing _her _name does to him whatever that that particular conversation with Paige did to Alex. It affects him, even though he would give anything to wish it didn't. It hurts him - and he wants her to hurt too but she isn't here and so he'll have to settle on Alex. (Later - much, much, much later - he'll reflect back on that thought and wonder if maybe he should consider going back to Group and NA meetings.)

Their kisses are rough and bitter and unrelenting; Alex nips none too gently on his bottom lip. He backs her into the kitchen counter, not caring at all when she hisses as her back collides with its edge, since Craig knows it's what she wants. His hands slide to her center and her nails sink into his back before she suddenly says, "No," and pushes him away with abrupt force. He's in a lusted haze of confusion until she turns around, her back facing him, her stomach pressing into the counter's edge and her ass pressing into his crotch. All she does is place his hands on her breasts and choke out a strangled, "Please" in order for him to agree and go along with the new position. His hands roam her body freely and she spreads her legs to allow for better access. They're loud; shouting, screaming, moaning, and the walls in her tiny, one-bedroom apartment are paper thin and he knows that Alex's neighbors already hate her so _this_ definitely isn't helping. But, as is fitting to Alex's personality, she doesn't care. "God Craig harder!" she insists. He's almost certain that she's going to get marks and scratches across her stomach from the way he's going at her now and her hips are definitely going to bruise, but he is as desperate to forget any self-inflicted hurt as she is. (And she sinks her nails into his flesh whenever he attempts to be gentle, letting him know that was the furthest thing from her mind when she asked him to come over.) So he complies until she's arching her back against his chest and they've both reached that release they've desperately needed.

"Better?" he asks, just a little breathless.

"...Not even close."

Alex is curled up on the other side of the bed when he reaches for the phone, her heavy-lidded eyes watching his movements and not seeming to bother with any form of modesty as the bed sheet pools at her waist, exposing her bare chest. Her hand rests on his thigh, centimeters away from his groin. "Don't be pathetic," she warns him. The (three? four? he can't really be certain) lines of cocaine that they shared seemed to have the opposite effect on both of them. She's calmed down considerably since he first came to her apartment while Craig is anxious, his nervousness heightened as he dials the number he knows by heart.

It rings three times before she answers, and Craig feels his heartbeat pick up because every time he's called so far, she hasn't answered, causing him to leave rambling messages, begging her not to turn her back on him, on their friendship.

"Ellie," he breathes. "You answered."

"Well you won't stop calling." He hears her sigh and then, "Craig..."

"Just talk to me. Please."

"I really don't have anything to say to you. Except stop calling me."

"I meant what I said before-"

"You always do, Craig,"

"I meant about group or NA or whatever. It's different this time."

"Why? What makes it so different?"

_Because I'm desperate, because I'm pathetic, because I'm hopeless because I've never really felt those things all at once before and I don't think there's anything I can do about it._

"It's different-"

"Is Alex there with you?" He doesn't respond, doesn't want to lie anymore than he already has. "That's what I thought. And I'm pretty sure the two of you haven't been playing _Yahtzee!_ all night long."

"No," he admits quietly at the exact same time Alex inches her fingers closer to allow her hand to wrap around him. She smirks when he flinches at the unexpected contact.

"Well, then there's your answer."

"Ellie-"

"Bye, Craig." The dial tone resounded, loud and with an echo of finality, in his ear.

* * *

_It doesn't take long for him to grow weary of rehab, and__ for Craig to start to wish that he never bothered to come here__ in the first place. _

_It feels like a never-ending process, almost as though he's stuck in some bizarre state of limbo that he won't ever be able to get himself out of. His hands shake from the withdrawal and the anti-nausea medication that's supposed to help him through detox is nothing more than a joke. The road to recovery is long, the journey endless, and at barely the halfway mark, Craig fails to see the point in him even being here if he still feels this worthless.  
_

_Dr. McIntosh is __rhythmically __clicking her pen every three seconds, pointedly waiting for Craig to be the first to speak about his state of mind during the withdrawal. It's __currently __the only sound in the room and Craig is perfectly fine with keeping it that way. Honestly, he's never really been a fan of therapy - of any kind - even when he was required to go after first being diagnosed as bipolar. "You don't say much during our group sessions. You don't talk about your past, or what brought you here."_

_"I'm here to kick an...addiction." The word is still hard for him to say, still turns his mouth sour at every syllable. "Talking about how my dad used to use my face to practice his golf swing or the fact that I was in the car accident that killed my mother isn't going to help with that."_

_Dr. McIntosh blinks slowly but Craig doesn't miss the pity that flashes in her eyes. He's seen it so often it would be odd if he wasn't able to recognize it so well. "It might," she offers.  
_

_He's not sure whether or not he truly believes that.  
_

* * *

"...Looks like you got yourself a problem."

Don, the guy who got him this gig, is standing in the doorway of the bathroom. His arms are crossed over his stomach and his mouth turned down into a frown that could either be a show of disapproval or simply Craig's own paranoia and a projection of his own self image.

_It's _not_ a problem. Tell him it's not a problem! _His hands are shaking. He's nauseous. Craig looks up at the scratched mirror hanging on the bathroom wall and doesn't recognize the person he sees. It's a familiar scene, only somehow it's so much worse this time, because he's been here before. (And, he knows, he shouldn't be.)

"...Yeah," Craig admits, laughing humorlessly. "I think I do."

Don sighs. "Think you can you do your set?"

"Yeah. I just - can you give me a minute?"

On his cellphone is a voice-mail he's saved from Ellie, the only communication he's had with her since the night he called her from Alex's apartment. He presses one, holds the phone to his ear, and listens to her voice:

_"I care about you and I want you to get help. I want you to _be happy._" _There's a pause, a distinctive sniffle._ "...But I can't have another addict in my life, Craig. I just- I _can't_. Please understand that. Respect that."  
_

He hasn't seen Alex since he first got the voice-mail and now he thinks as he's turning over a baggie of fine white powder he's pulled from his wallet, he thinks that he's an idiot for trying to do this cold turkey, and alone. Ellie's not returning his calls, Alex is only using him as a means to an end, and lately the music he's written has been, at best, worse than horseshit. Craig can't remember what it is to be inspired without being high and he's starting to think it's just not worth it.

Even if it is a problem.

_"Fuck it," _he says to himself before giving in to temptation - like he always seems to do - and spills out some of the coke onto the counter near the sink before cutting it into three decent lines. He hesitates, just a little, before leaning forward, middle and forefinger placed over one nostril, to quickly inhale the drug. He briefly wonders if Alyce, the counselor, would consider that hesitation as some twisted form of progress. _Probably not, _he thinks.

He stumbles out onto the stage, carefully sidestepping the mic, his guitar in hand. He takes in the crowd in front of him and the bright spotlight shining overhead. He squints, smiling listlessly.

"This is kind of an old song," he says into the mic. "And it was inspired by a friend." He picks up his guitar and strums the familiar chords to _"Drowning"_.


	6. Come Back in the Window

Addicted to Company

Summary: Today, he promises himself, he'll start anew. …Just as soon as he finishes this one last line. AU Craig, post rehab.

Rated: M for inappropriate language and drug use

**A/N**: final chapter.

* * *

_And baby what are you looking for?_

_What are you looking for?_

_Why do you come here? _

_What's inside that door?_  
_-_

He wakes up in a muddled haze of confusion, dotted with traces of déjà vu. His mouth is dry and his high has utterly imploded, and the warm body of a naked woman that he doesn't recognize or remember meeting is draped over his torso.

Craig cranes his neck in her direction to get a better look at the woman laying next to him, but all he sees is a mane of unruly brown curls, masking a face his gut tells him he wouldn't recognize even if he were able to see it. He sighs, and lets his head fall back against his pillow, as he tries to recall what happened last night.

Nothing.

His mind is blank and his memory clear, though his conscience is anything but. It's to be expected, though; this is how the past few days have gone for him: desperately and pathetically make an effort to reach out to Ellie only to get silence and nothing in return, play a gig, snort a few lines, meet a girl, snort a few more lines, call Ellie, go home with the girl, more lines, crash at home; lather, rinse, repeat.

Craig groans as the pounding in his head increases and the woman pressed against him finally rolls over, away from him, finally giving him the space he needs to get up and go to the bathroom.

Afterwards, he heads to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. All the blinds in the room are drawn, whatever sunlight remains barely peaking through the inches of space between the window and the counter.

Out of the corner of his eye he detects movement. Craig turns, and notices the girl on his bed is awake and sitting up, his bed sheet wrapped loosely around her body. "Mhm, morning. I think," she giggles. She runs a hand through her hair, paying no mind when a few strands of it fall over her left eye. "Either way, I had a good time last night."

Craig nods, though he says nothing. He's also heard this one before, but today, for some reason, he's just not in the mood toward making the effort to pretend to care about whether or not he comes off as being sincere. Though, she doesn't seem to care; the fact that he can't remember her name and she doesn't appear to know his _should_ be more awkward, but it isn't. It just is what it is. She moves towards him by crawling on her hands and knees. She stops when she reaches the edge of the bed, looking up at him hopefully. She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can get a word out, he stops her.

"You, uh, you should probably get going," Craig insists.

Her face falls, though she smiles weakly in an attempt to cover it up. "Oh. Right. Well, maybe-"

A knock on the door interrupts her and Craig nearly sighs audibly with relief. He waits, a beat, looking at her pointedly before she starts reaching for her clothes and then heads for the door. He pulls it open, not knowing who it is that's pounding on is door with a fury that's rivaling his hangover, but certainly knowing the last person he's expecting to see, despite how much he's hoped, is Ellie.

"Ellie? What-?"

"What the hell is _this_?" she demands angrily, holding a faded and creased paper that he swears is covered in his handwriting and practically shoving it in his face.

Shit_._

* * *

_The room is empty when he gets there. Nothing but folding chairs stacked on top of each other in one corner and several tables pushed against a far wall, creating an empty space in the middle of the room, that seems to have the opposite effect of creating "openness" by instead making his chest ache with loneliness. Craig stares at the floor, the scratch marks across the linoleum._

_The clock on the wall ticks ahead, echoing loudly. It's 12:01 and he is the first and only one here, standing just outside the doorway to the room, waiting for the meeting to start. It's not that he's eager or willing, exactly, but if Craig has to choose between here and being stuck back with his roommate, he'd choose here._

_"You're here early." He turns, startled, to find Ingrid leaning against the opposite wall. _

_"…Needed some time alone," Craig admits reluctantly. _

_"Oh. Do you want me to go, then?" It's the first time he's been asked what he wants with no obligations or strings attached. It's…unexpected to say the least. _

_He guesses that's why he says that she can stay.  
_

* * *

"So I guess I'll see you around - Oh." The girl whose name he can't remember pauses just in the doorway, standing in between him and Ellie. She smiles, somehow, oddly enough not finding this situation awkward at all. He envies that. "This your girlfriend?"

He and Ellie both answer, nearly simultaneously, though with entirely different reactions:

"No-"

"_No._"

A moment of silence passes between them as the girl leaves and Ellie moves to stand in his living room, still fiercely clenching the letter Craig wrote. But, once the door slams shut, Ellie whirls on him with an ire he doesn't think he's ever seen before - not even when she walked in on him and Alex in the bathroom at that club. "Why would you send me this now, Craig? I mean just when I finally think that I'm completely over you-"

_What? _Even in the midst of clinging to the last dregs of a hangover, his mind is still able to catch that detail.

"- you go and do _this_! I don't understand what you're trying to prove."

"I'm not trying to prove anything, Elle-"

"_Don't_ call me that," she snaps.

"I don't even remember-" And then suddenly he does: A random night in the middle of a random week with a random girl whose face he can barely conjure up, her arms hanging off his shoulders and her chest pressed against his back as she casually suggested, "Just send the letter. Why'd you even you write it if you're not gonna send it? I mean, now she'll _never know how you really feel_. I would love for a guy to send _me_ a letter. It's so, like, vintage."

He'd grinned, suddenly inspired, and taken the letter to the nearest post office, somehow being able to charm his way into having the woman standing in line behind him pay for the post stamp.

Obviously, he'd forgotten about his decision.

"I wasn't… trying to do anything with the letter. I just… sent it."

She laughs, but not in a good way; she doesn't believe him. "Yeah right."

"What did you mean when you said you finally think you're over me?"

"Nothing."

"It was _something_."

"No, _nothing_. You, and me," she gestures between them, "are a bad idea. We always have been. Especially now, Craig."

"I'm trying-"

"What, with that girl?" Ellie scoffs. "_No_, you're _not trying_. God, Craig, you can't even function!"

"I can _function_ just fine, Ellie! I'm not like your mother."

It's exactly the wrong thing to say and he knows this. Even if he's right, even if he thinks this or she does, he shouldn't say it. He closes his eyes and sighs, shaking his head slightly in disbelief at his own stupidity.

"I'm sorry-"

"Are you?" Ellie asks dubiously. She looks up at him, still unwilling to let her guard down entirely, but she doesn't seem as angry as she was earlier. "Did you even mean what you wrote? I mean, do you even remember-"

"I remember what I wrote," he interrupts, immediately. Before she can even allow herself to fully voice the thought out loud. "I just - I never planned on sending it to you."

"Why not?"

"Because," Craig admits quietly, "I didn't think it would matter." She's not looking at him now, but she's still holding onto the letter, though her grip isn't clenched as tight as it was earlier. Still, he finds himself compelled to ask, "Does it matter?"

Ellie bites down on her bottom lip, eyes closed briefly. "It matters. …But I just don't know if it changes anything."

It's fair, he knows, but the admission still stings a little. Craig doesn't know if that's why he leans down to kiss her - something to ease the sting - or if this is his default attempt to try to change Ellie's mind about him. He doesn't really know much of anything anymore. Though he does know, and is surprised, when her tongue brushes against his, her hands resting on top of his shoulders, mere moments before she seems to come to her senses and pushes him away.

"_No,_" is all she says before stumbling away from him, the letter still in her hands, and slamming the door behind her.

* * *

_There are rules against this, he knows. Unwritten or unspoken, he is not supposed to be here, with her. Whether or not it's been done before doesn't matter, shouldn't matter. (Still, he knows what her intentions were when she asked him to meet her here tonight.)  
_

_It doesn't matter._

_Craig tells himself exactly that when Ingrid opens the door to the rec room. He takes in how she looks then: uncombed auburn hair grazing tanned shoulders, exposed in nothing but a tank top and a pair of shorts. No shoes, either._

_"So how did you get a key to this place?"_

_"Oh, they never lock up. They just bank on the power of authority."_

_"Oh." He starts to tell her he's changed his mind, starts to tell her that this - they - might not be the best idea. Then, she (or he or they) move toward each other, meeting somewhere in the middle. It happens faster than he anticipated. She hooks her fingers in his belt loops and then suddenly his pants are undone and her shirt is on the floor. He pulls her beneath him and covers her mouth with his. Tongues clash, she sighs his name as he slides her out of her shorts and kisses his way down her stomach. She shivers against him and the sensation alone is more than he can bear. Before he can talk himself out of it, he does what she is urging him to do and fills her completely._

_"…Well, that is certainly a nice replacement for group therapy," Ingrid murmurs breathlessly once they've finished._

_"Tied with coke though," Craig jokes. (Though he thinks he's only partially kidding.)  
_

* * *

After days of absence, Alex pops up at the club in between sets- sometimes, he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Don to suddenly change his mind and realize what he's gotten himself into, and fire him - waiting for him by the bar. "So you're not dead," he greets her flatly.

Alex smirks, though her eyes show sadness not amusement. "You were concerned?"

"You disappear for days and don't answer any calls, yeah I think 'concerned' is a good place to start."

She scoffs. "Please, you were just missing a good fuck buddy."

"…What happened with Paige?"

"Nothing."

"Clearly."

"She's moved on. I need to, too."

"…Easier said than done, right?"

"Alex."

She sighs, twirling the straw in her drink - rum and coke, he knows - and before she even opens her mouth to speak, he already has a feeling he also knows what sent her into hiding. "Paige…had a moment where she said she wanted to try again. Said I deserve better."

"According to you that's what she always says."

"…And _then_ her boyfriend came over and she acted like the entire conversation never happened. She told him that I was an 'old friend from school'."

"Well that's not exactly a lie."

"Not exactly the truth, either." Alex snaps a rubber band against her wrist, in a way that reminds him far too much of Ellie. He wants to reach over and make her stop.

"What did you say?"

"I told her to go fuck herself," Alex informs him.

"Did you mean it?"

"…at the time, yeah," she admits, hesitantly.

"And now?" Before she can answer, a voice that he recognizes easily cuts through the air and the conversation. "Craig?"

"…Ingrid?" He catches sight of her walking toward him. She looks…different from the last time he's seen her. Her hair is lighter, she's definitely thinner, and there's something else, something Craig can't quite put his finger on.

"How've you been?"

"Good." Ingrid pulls up a chair and Alex lights a cigarette.

Alex leans forward, her chin resting in the palm of her hand, the smoke form her cigarette curling up and around her face. "So how do you know Craig?"

"Oh, we met in rehab," Ingrid informs her almost cheerfully, it seems. Craig sighs and Alex smirks, almost meanly. "Kind of a shitty place if the two of you ended up _here_."

Ingrid shrugs and, despite his best efforts to suppress it, Craig can hear Alyce's voice in the back of his mind, sickeningly sweet as she reassured, _"Relapse isn't the end of the journey to sobriety. It's just a speed bump."_

Ingrid orders a round of drinks for the table, taking a shot whenever the conversation seems to turn too personal or veer towards why she's here, how she ended up in, of all places, the bar where Craig performs for just enough cash to pay the rent.

He watches from stage, the forlorn look in her eyes, the knowing gaze in Alex's and then their heads bent together before Alex slips her hand in her pocket. From this distance, he can't see what she places on the table, but he has a feeling that he already knows what it is.

"Let's go to your place," Alex murmurs in his ear when he steps off stage, confirming his suspicions. Craig can only nod, knowing what's waiting for him. (And he also knows where his weakness lies.)

"Are you-"

He watches Ingrid tap the needle, her eyes so focused they're nearly criss-crossed. Her arm is wrapped tight in a makeshift tourniquet - her hair tie - one blue vein bulging out just enough for her to have access to. "I've been doing this for a while." She smiles, seconds before inserting the needle with precision. She unties the scrunchie, sets the needle on the bedside table. "Shit," she murmurs, her eyelids drooping. "I've kinda missed you."

"How did you know where I was?"

She shrugs. "Asked around."

"How did you know that I would-" he stops, unsure of how to say it, unable to still admit it. Ingrid climbs onto his lap, the effects of her high probably heightening. She shrugs again. "Same way I knew the first time," she replies before her lips meet his. A dull, but heavy, thud catches their attention and causes them both to pull apart.

Craig hurries to his bathroom, knocks on the closed door only to get no response. "Alex?" He tries the knob and turns it to find Alex, on the bathroom floor, a needle of her own next to her. "Shit!"

"Did you give this to her?"

"Yeah, I mean, I'm not stupid. I don't share needles," Ingrid insists and Craig knows she isn't comprehending _any_ of this or what it means. He checks Alex for a pulse, thankful that there still is one. His hands are shaking - the two lines of coke doing him no favors - as he grabs the phone to dial 911. When the operator comes on the line, Ingrid begins to panic; "I can't go to jail again," she says. "My dad will never pay my bail this time. I can't be here when the cops come. I can't I can't I can't..."

In the bathroom he waits for the ambulance to come, holding Alex's hand, desperate to make sure he can still feel a pulse, Ellie's voice filled with disappointment and regret and heartache playing in the back of his mind once again (and probably forever):

_"Was it worth it?"_

* * *

"My name is Craig and, um…" He sighs, shuffles his feet. He hates this part: admitting acknowledging, seeing himself for what they see. As much as he hates it, though, he knows he needs to say it. His shoulders droop and he rubs his red-rimmed eyes.

He hasn't showered or changed his clothes since he left the hospital last night after spending two days there, waiting for the moment the doctor declared Alex officially recovered from her overdose. He owed her that, he felt. _Someone_ needed to be there, in the way she deserved, even if it would never be the person she really wanted.

He clears his throat, raises his head to meet Alyce's encouraging gaze.

"… I'm an addict."


End file.
